


What happens in the closet...

by transishimaru



Category: Borderlands (Video Games)
Genre: F/M, Hand Jobs, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot, Vaginal Fingering
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-01-12
Updated: 2021-01-12
Packaged: 2021-03-16 13:47:12
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,319
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28707630
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/transishimaru/pseuds/transishimaru
Summary: Rhys and Sasha get a few minutes alone.
Relationships: Rhys/Sasha (Borderlands)
Comments: 2
Kudos: 7





	What happens in the closet...

**Author's Note:**

  * For [CrispyDen](https://archiveofourown.org/users/CrispyDen/gifts).



> Hi I don't go here but my best friend is really into Rhys/Sasha so here u go Richie<3

It’s almost laughably obvious he doesn’t have much experience in this area. Dorky, but in a cute sort of way. Sasha won’t laugh, if only because they have so little time to themselves that she’s not going to waste it. People will be wondering where they are like they’ve been wondering where they are every time they get five seconds alone. She’s the one who’s been pulling every long con, doing the hard work of getting guys to fall for her shtick because Fiona couldn’t stand the thought of touching one longer than she had to. She’s earned this.

At least with Rhys she knows she’ll get someone determined to do it right. Dorky, she reiterates, but in a sweet kind of way. She’s never really had friends, and she likes the way he takes care of his. It tells her a lot about a person, the way they treat the people who depend on them. Her and Fiona. Rhys and Vaughn. Maybe they have more in common than they thought.

She pulls her mouth off his long enough to watch his open, flabbergasted, and puts a finger to his lips. “Tell whatever part of your brain says to talk first and think later to shut it. We’re just going to enjoy this. Okay?” Rhys shuts his lips tight and smiles awkwardly. Sasha just shakes her head him, and drags his head back.

He’s not a bad kisser. A little too slow for the moment they’re in (someplace else, some other time, she could appreciate this kind of tenderness, the way he tries to touch her face like she’s made of something fragile), but she could lodge the opposite complaints about August. Who she is refusing to think about right now, though the contrast is obvious with how chivalrous Rhys is attempting to be. She has to take his hands and put them up her shirt and even then it’s like he’s feeling tits for the first time – _Oh no, really, is he?_

Someplace else, some other time. If they make it out of this alive. She’ll let him take her on a date somewhere nice, and she’ll give him a first time not confined to a janitor’s closet.

Sasha unbuttons his pants and unzips them, palming him through his boxers. She’s been trying hard not to think about how far Jack’s fanboys would go to emulate their hero, though it’s not immediately relevant. Rhys’ breath puffs out against her neck, squeezing her breasts. The metal doesn’t feel as bad against her skin as she’d thought it might, cool against the heat of her body. She leans into his hands as she pulls him out, stroking him.

Rhys watches her move to her own pants, unbuttoning them with ease. Despite his best efforts to keep quiet, he still manages to squeak out, “Are we gonna –“

“Not all the way,” she hisses. “Now shut up. Or do you want us to get caught?”

“No, no –“ She digs her teeth into his jaw and takes hold of his left wrist, sliding his fingers down her panties. She hears him gasp when she starts to rub against his hand. She rolls her pants and underwear down to mid-thigh, parting her legs for Rhys’ hand.

His fingers shake against her body. She kisses his throat. “You can touch more of me than that. Just slide your fingers back –“ And he does, wrist jerking. She doesn’t want to waste time with apologies for the way he moves unevenly, rubbing her clit against his palm. It’s lucky for her his hand is soft enough to titillate. Doing this without lubricant can be such a bitch.

She rolls the waistband of his boxers down enough to pull his cock out, licking her hand from the heel to her fingertips and wrapping it around him, stroking him. The way his hips buck, how much he’s leaking – it won’t take him long at all. Someplace else, some other time, she’ll have to train him. Because he would be a caring type of lover, and she hasn’t had enough of that. Her thumb circles his head, rubbing insistent on the slit and smirking at the way his hips buck into her hand. And it’s good; the more distracted he is, the less he thinks about what his hands are doing. The more natural it feels. The better.

Rhys’ fingers start to grind against her entrance and she digs her teeth into his neck, lips curled up and hand tight on his length. “What d’you – What d’you want me to do?” he chokes out.

“Right there,” she says, “But just one finger for now –“ her free hand curls in his hair as he pushes his pointer finger in slowly. “You should thrust your fingers while you – yeah, you got it.” He knows enough about what to do here that his movements almost feel practiced, and she spares a second thought to the idea that he’s fingered himself before and knows what feels good. She gets lost in it, thinking about him on all fours, taking a strap. He’d look good like that, better with his hair disheveled and cheeks flushed. Too many guys were afraid of that.

(Another time, another place.) She snaps her attention back to the present, to Rhys’ head tucked against her shoulder, his mouth on her neck. Without her telling him what to do, he’s pushed a second finger against her, and she rocks down on them to push them inside. She’s gotten wet, thinking about other times and other places where they could do something better than this, and if she’s not forced wide-awake for the rest of her life chasing after some illusion she’ll probably entertain those fantasies when she gets a moment to herself.

Her hand starts back up on his dick and Rhys yelps, leaning his weight on her. She rests her free hand on his waist to steady him and leans back against the door so her hips are pushed out. Her teeth tug at her bottom lip, thighs cramping. She tightens her grip and he moans, dopey and so, so endearing against her neck. Her hand follows his hips as they snap into her fist, and in a gasp he’s spilling on her hand. He takes a second to breathe wetly against her neck, fingers twitching, before he goes back to thrusting.

Sasha drops his cock and wipes her hand off on the door behind her, setting it on Rhys’ back. She can feel his teeth grit in the weight of his jaw against her neck, jaw clicking as he thrusts his fingers. “To the left,” she says, and he follows. “Curl your fingers –“ and he does. Her hand tightens on his shoulder, humming. She takes in a sharp breath, and tilts her head back, walls seizing around Rhys’ fingers.

This is the moment that confirms his inexperience: he gasps against her neck, and stutters the word _Oh_ , still moving his fingers uncertainly. She lets him, for just a few minutes, before she gently pushes his wrist away. His hand slides off her breast, staring at the cum coating his fingers as she pulls her underwear and pants back up, readjusting her shirt to make sure nothing looks out of place. She sighs when Rhys doesn’t quite snap to at the same time, shoving him back into his boxers and zipping his pants up. “So,” he starts, voice cracking, “Should we, uh. Kiss, or something?”

“We can do that later.” Some other time, some other place. “If we survive.” She’s not sure if it’s the rejection or the word choice that has him looking like he just stepped in a puddle in his socks. Either way, she pats his cheek, and lets her hand linger against his skin, drinking in for a minute just how soft it is. Before she can second-guess herself, she says, “And I hope we do.”


End file.
